Lora of Two Worlds

Twilight on the canal, it fell like the last glance of a sunset, then like a great hand clapping over your eyes before you could say goodnight.

Cook Lora crouched on the riverbank, blind as a bat.

"Come on, I haven't even got the fire started and it's already dark!" she muttered. Building a fire in the wild wasn't her strong suit. Even back home, at a barbecue, fire-building was a man's job.

And this fire-stick thing, she couldn't get a flame out of it to save her life.

"Let me." Roland came over, took the fire-stick from her hand. "Where are Shawn and Keane? I told them to help you. Why did they leave you alone?"

"Keane's gone to find dry grass. Shawn went back to the boat for something."

Roland blew the fire-stick to life, lit a handful of dry grass, tucked it under the kindling, and loosened the stack so air could flow. The fire caught.

"You, asking for trouble." Roland sighed. "The stove is nice, by the way. But can you actually cook?" "A little..."

The problem was the tools. One iron pot, one clay pot, a long-handled ladle. Not even a proper frying pan.

Roland hung the clay pot on the frame over the fire and dusted his hands: "There! If all else fails, when the water boils down, toss in some cured meat. Dinner and grain in one pot."

"My lord, you're out here? They're looking for you on the boat. The elder lord's come over." Shawn arrived carrying an iron plate, still wet, he'd washed it at the riverside.

"Oh. Wait, why did you bring the iron plate?" Roland laughed. Good thing his sister was only the cook, if she'd been the boatman, she'd have dismantled the hull. He explained:

"That plate goes under the charcoal brazier when you cook on deck. It catches sparks and embers so they don't burn the deck planks. You're cooking on shore, you don't need it."

"Oh, that's what it's. I couldn't figure out what it was for. It looked new."

Of course it was new. Canal boats cooked on shore. This plate had been specially brought for Roland and Leon to make small dishes on deck at night.

Lora had been rummaging through the provisions, wondering how to cook meat, when she'd spotted it.

Roland grinned: "All right, play with your food. I'm going back to the boat. Shawn, Keane, don't both leave at the same time. Even if the young lady orders you away, stay. Got it?"

"Am I that barbaric?" Lora rolled her eyes at her brother. As soon as Roland was out of earshot, Lora turned beaming to her two helpers, who absolutely couldn't leave:

"Quick! Quick! Put the iron plate on the stove. Push the wood aside, charcoal goes underneath."

"My lady, are we heating the plate?" Shawn had just set it on. A loud hissss, the water on the plate hit the fire and a column of steam erupted.

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Roland, already some distance away, heard the hiss and turned to see the white cloud rising. He shook his head, smiling ruefully:

Better have the passenger boat cook make something. This "cook" was hopeless.

Back on the cargo boat, Roland found Alvin had indeed come over.

"Off on shore? I was hoping you'd bring food back, I'm waiting to scavenge." Alvin and Leon had wine bowls set out on the small table before them.

Von Klein, the royal envoy, had been a palace man since childhood. He'd started as an outer-hall ceremony page, and only in the present reign had he risen to senior attendant.

He was mild by nature. Voss and his faction didn't take him seriously, which meant he didn't have to choose sides. He served the King and kept his head down.

He'd made no trouble for Alvin. Alvin was happy to be left alone.

"I went to hurry the food along... but our cook is seasick. Might be a while. Alvin, how about your boat's cook makes something? We'll send ingredients over."

Roland didn't wait for agreement. He called Guard Ashford to handle it. Ashford didn't bother with ingredients, he went straight down to shore.

"Today was the hardest push. If we'd slept on the far side of the river, we'd be close to Heyford city, the marcher duke would have heard and come to call. A whole night wasted. Tomorrow we reach Bridgeford, but can't make it to Watchford in the remaining half-day. So we lose half a day anyway."

Alvin, a few years older and steady, was someone Leon admired.

This trip wasn't just about saving Alvin from his former-life fate. Leon meant to help both brothers earn distinction, and perhaps gain something for himself.

"Alvin, what do you make of the northern marcher lords?"

"Apart from two or three hotheads, most still depend on the crown. The marcher dukes serve three-year rotations, they never truly control the local garrison. Year one: learn the lay of the land. Year two: start doing some good. Year three: pack up and go. Hard to think long-term with that system."

"So the regional forces still look to the crown?"

"No. They look at who pays them. The crown lets the marcher lords tax and recruit independently, that's pushing them away."

Leon sighed: "And if the crown didn't let them, could it afford to give them more? It's drinking poison to quench thirst. Scooping water off the top of a boiling pot."

"So what's needed is a..."

Alvin stopped. To finish that sentence was treason. Leon finished it for him:

"A strong crown. Not one that swaps chancellors every season. Pinching pennies in the palace is just for show. Go after the parasites who've hollowed out the treasury, then the crown can fund what it needs to do."

"Easier said. The old nobility and the new men are tangled like roots. Voss and his chamberlains sell offices and rake in coin, it's an open secret. The men who bought their posts band together to recover their investment, and squeeze the people twice as hard."

Three feet of ice doesn't form in a day. The road ahead of Leon was long and hard.

The three men sat in their separate thoughts when, a scent drifted in.

Meat. Roasting meat. Since when did the boat smell this good?

"Is that Ashford back? Is that roast meat? How come it never smells this good normally?" Roland congratulated himself on his foresight, if he'd waited for his sister to finish, they might have been eating charcoal.

"Wipe your chin, you skipped one meal and you're drooling?" Leon had barely spoken when his own mouth watered:

Odd. Suddenly ravenous.

Linn went to the gangplank to receive a pot of meat and a pot of grain. The man who delivered it wore an overseer's robe, his cap pulled low. In the dim light, Linn tried to memorize his face. The man said:

"Here you go."

And turned away.

The smell. They ate roast mutton all the time, but this was different.

Roland tipped the pot into a bowl. Not roast mutton, rib chops. Individual ribs, glistening.

"This is... incredible. More tender than anything we've had." Leon was amazed. What cook could do this in the wild, better than the palace kitchens?

The gaminess of the mutton had turned into something sweet, almost buttery.

"Go get Ashford. I want to ask him, where did he find this cook? When we get back to Lohenheim, I'm hiring him for the household."

Alvin agreed, this was extraordinary.

The three men were gnawing on rib chops when Linn and Ashford returned, carrying two more dishes. Ashford said, puzzled:

"This is what the passenger-boat cook made. What you've been eating, that wasn't him."

Roland nearly choked on a mouthful of meat.

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